


Such a Sweet Surprise

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kink, M/M, Read at Your Own Risk, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Dean wants to know why Sam is stealing his lip balm. Sam wants things he shouldn't...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Contains abuse of chapstick, stockings and lipstick. Slight cross-dressing. This is just unadulterated filth. Seriously, I think I made *myself* blush with this one.
> 
> * * *

 

So Dean uses lip balm. A lot of lip balm. That doesn't make him a chick or fruity or pervy or whatever. It's not like he's even particularly vain. It's just that he has this habit of licking his lips. He doesn't notice he's doing it most of the time. He's only aware of his quirk because he gets such dry lips as a result. And because occasionally some girl's gaze will get stuck on his mouth. They probably assume it's a conscious seduction technique, but no. It's just a thing he does. He can't help being a sexy sonofabitch.  
  
Recently, Dean's been getting through even more chapsticks than usual. He keeps misplacing them. It's easily done. The little tubes can roll off his nightstand or slip out of the back pocket of his jeans when he's lounging on the couch or driving, or get shaken free when he's being flung about by a pissed off spirit. It's no big deal. It's not like he pays for them. Most stores keep them in a stand right next to the counter, an impulse-buy item, and it's almost reflex now to palm one and slide it into his pants when the cashier is looking away.  
  
Typically though, the minute he picks up a fresh stick, the one he lost will turn up somewhere. He doesn't think much of it at all. Until one day when he catches Sam rooting through his bedside drawer.  
  
***  
  
It's Spring and they are staying in a run-down rental place in Pasadena. It's a crap-hole, sagging beds and threadbare upholstery, mismatched furniture and mold in the grout of the bathroom, but it's big enough for Sam and Dean to have a bedroom each — a luxury they are seldom afforded. Hell, they still have to share a bed now and then even though they are way too old, and Dean would die of shame if any of his hook-ups found out.  
  
They've been here a few weeks now, Dad using it as a base while he tracks a nest of vampires sucking their way across California, and it could be a lot worse. The weather is balmy and there's no shortage of hot women in sun dresses and short shorts to keep Dean occupied. Sam seems as contented as he ever does these days, head buried in a book mostly, quiet and sullen but not actually complaining, so Dean will chalk it up as a win.  
  
It's early evening, the sun sinking down toward the horizon, when he gets home with a paper bag of groceries tucked under each arm. Sam's at that age where he needs to eat constantly, and Dean is no slouch in that department either. Dad is off trawling the bars and night spots of LA, in search of leads on the vamp coven. Dean's stocked up on things he can make into cheap and filling meals — pasta, rice, canned meat, tinned veg, pasata, spices. He's planning to throw something together for him and Sam, then head out himself.  
  
He puts the shopping on the kitchen counter and cocks his head for the sound of the TV. Nothing.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
He hears a noise coming from down the hall so moves towards it.  
  
“Sam? I'm back! Whad'ya feel like eating?”  
  
Outside the bathroom, he realizes the sound is coming from his own room. He frowns, hoping he didn't leave anything out he doesn't want Sam seeing, and pushes the door open.  
  
“Sam, what're you -”  
  
Sam has headphones on and obviously didn't hear him call. But the blur of his brother in his periphery is enough to make him whirl around, face flushed and mouth making a little O. He pushes the cans off his head and they come to sit around his neck.  
  
“Sorry!” Sam says quickly. His hand is still halfway in the drawer by Dean's bedside. “I was...um...I was just looking for a chapstick.”  
  
Dean quirks an eyebrow.  
  
“A chapstick?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding more confident now. “You don't have the exclusive on dry lips.”  
  
“Why would you think I have chapstick in my drawer,” Dean says, a little affronted.  
  
Sam snorts a laugh at that.  
  
“C'mon man. You're not as covert as you think you are. You apply like eight hundred times a day. Ducking your head down in your jacket when you do it doesn't make you invisible, jerk!”  
  
Dean swallows, then shoots back an automatic,  
  
“Bitch.”  
  
“Plus you reek of cherry cola and vanilla and fruits of the forest. You smell like a girl.”  
  
Sam is smirking and Dean's about five seconds away from handing him his ass. But he's busted, so he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a tube of Carmex.  
  
“Here!” He pitches it to his brother.  
  
Sam dabs some on his finger and smears it on his lower lip. He hands it back to Dean as he passes him on the way out.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“And Sam?” Dean calls over his shoulder when Sam is in the hall.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Stay outta my stuff, or so help me God, I will end you.”  
  
***  
  
Dad calls and says he won't be back tonight. They eat a simple dinner of pasta with ground beef and tomato sauce. They shoot the shit. Sam tells Dean all about the novel he's just finished — The Go-Between, and about how it's a story about the loss of innocence. He talks about it such a way that Dean can almost forget he's only sixteen years old. Like innocence is something he's long since abandoned. It makes his chest a little tight. He thinks about staying in. Offering to rent some videos and get some popcorn, and hole-up, just the two of them.  
  
But Dean feels restless. Cornered. He feels like maybe if he doesn't go out tonight and blow off some steam, he might not be very good company. He feels volatile and he knows from experience that when he gets like this, all the guilt and anger he feels on his brother's behalf can backfire. He wants Sammy to have an education, a girlfriend. His own room all the time. He wants him to be able to play video games with spotty geeks of his own age, and to have somewhere private to read skin mags and jerk off. A place that smells like him — a little musky and a little sour. Clothes strewn on the floor because he can't fit everything he owns in one duffel, and that he doesn't have to wash the blood off once a fortnight in a laundromat.  
  
What he doesn't want is for all that futile ire to get bent out of shape so he ends up taking it out on the one person whose happiness means more to him than anything in the world. But he's always been terrible at laying it on the line for Sammy and, at times like this, when the injustice of it all starts to weigh him down, it's usually easier to pick a fight than have a heart to heart. Nights like this, Deans needs at outlet. He doesn't trust himself not to prod at his brother. Try and goad him into some roughhousing just to get that heated contact which is so far from what he wants, but also too similar, given that it's his little brother's rapidly hardening muscles and warm, soft skin under his hands.  
  
So he washes their plates and cutlery while Sam dries, and tells him he's going to a bar for a few hours. Sam shrugs and mumbles his assent, probably already mentally picking out a new book to start. Or maybe he'll work on some algebra problems just for the Hell of it. Kid's weird like that. Perhaps he'll do a little research on vampires, hoping to discover something to help their father, even though they are all familiar with most of the lore available by now.  
  
He ruffles Sam's over-long and slightly dirty hair on the way out, wonders why the kid's hand stinks so strongly of Burt's Beeswax when Sam brings it up to swat him off.  
  
***  
  
Her name is Rachelle. Ray-shell, is how she says it, low and dirty into his ear, pressing the whole length of her tight little body against him. She's wearing these shiny, shiny red patent heels and red stockings, a seam running down the back of each long, well contoured leg. And her mouth. Jesus. Her mouth. It's soft and pillowy and smothered in thick, glossy crimson.  
  
“Cherry Pie,” she tells him when he comments on the sweet taste of it. “It's called Cherry Pie.”  
  
Dean takes her back to the house. Dad's got the Impala so he's driving a 'borrowed' heap of junk, but she doesn't seem to care. She's as kinky as Dean suspected, and he has to clamp a hand over her mouth a few times to stop her babbling and moaning from waking his brother. He passes out after his third orgasm, and wakes a few hours later to find Rachelle hopping around the room, the first rays of early morning sun bleeding through the tatty curtains.  
  
“Shit! Shit!” she hisses as she stubs a toe against the nightstand.  
  
“Morning,” Dean smirks, watching her through half closed eyes.  
  
“I'm late for work!” she says, scrabbling round, trying to retrieve her clothes from the various places she ditched them last night. “Have you seen my...? Y'know what. Never mind. I gotta go.” She bends over and pecks him on the lips. “Thanks for last night.” Her tone changes, a little of the temptress creeping back in. “It was...fun.”  
  
Dean winks.  
  
“Sure was. Wanna do it again sometime?”  
  
Dean's hedging his bets. They could be stuck here a few weeks longer, so it would be nice to have the option of a repeat performance, but he doesn't want to give her the wrong impression either.  
  
She doesn't answer, just gives him a sly smile over her shoulder and breezes out of the room, pulling her shoes on as she goes.  
  
***  
  
Sam's eating a bowl of cereal in front of the TV when he surfaces. He turns around when he hears Dean approach. His expression is tired and his lips are pursed in that way Dean knows means he's got his panties in a bunch about something.  
  
“What? Someone piss in your Fruit Loops?”  
  
“They're Cheerios,” Sam says flatly. “And you look a mess.”  
  
Dean supposes he does. His hair is sticking up at crazy angles and there's lipstick smears on his the palms of his hands and probably all over his face. He stretches his arms up above his head, letting his shoulders pop, and scratches at the downy trail of hair on his belly — stiff with dried bodily fluid. It's kind of gross. He probably smells a little ripe too. Sam makes a disgusted sort of tut at him — as if reading his thoughts.  
  
“It was worth it, Sammy boy.” He grins lopsidedly at his brother.  
  
“Yeah, well you kept me up half the night, so thanks for that, asshole.”  
  
Dean drops onto the cushions beside his brother and fishes a couple of the crunchy little hoops out of Sam's milk with his dirty fingers, popping them onto his tongue and chewing them with his mouth open. Sam scoots out of his reach and sighs, exasperated.  
  
“You are so repulsive,” he says, slanted eyes hard.  
  
“C'mon, Sammy,” he says, cajoling. “Don't you wanna hear all the gory details?” He waggles his eyebrows, but Sam's expression remains guarded.  
  
“No I do NOT. I heard enough last night. In fact, half the state of California probably heard you.”  
  
Dean chuckles.  
  
“So you don't want hear about how flexible she was? Could get both knees up behind her head -”  
  
“Shut up, Dean!”  
  
“Or about how she did this crazy little thing with her tongue around my -”  
  
“DEAN!” Sam slams his bowl down on the coffee table and springs to his feet. “Just shut the fuck up. Sicko.”  
  
Dean laughs as Sam hurries down the hall and bangs his bedroom door shut.  
  
***  
  
Dean showers and washes his hair, humming the intro to Enter Sandman while the hot water eases the kinks out of his muscles. He feels good, invigorated, like he just finished a strenuous work out. He reluctantly steps out of the bath and slings a towel around his waist. He pads down the hall and swings the door to his bedroom open.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
Sam is standing in the middle of the room. In one hand he's holding something red and sheer. In the other, something which looks like one of Dean's chapsticks.  
  
“Sam! What did I tell you about going through my things? Privacy, dude. Ever heard of it?”  
  
Sam's mouth quirks up at the corner. Like something is funny. His expression is unreadable.  
  
“Looks like your barfly left a few things behind.”  
  
There's something dark in Sam's voice which Dean's never heard before, and it pulls him up sharp.  
  
“Yeah, well. She was in a hurry.”  
  
“They always are though, aren't they Dean? Once they've got what they want.”  
  
Dean frowns.  
  
“Sam, what're you -”  
  
“I don't know why you do it, Dean. They don't deserve it. Don't deserve you. I'm so sick of pretending it doesn't matter. Acting like I don't care. I'm sick of it, Dean. You make me so fucking crazy. Boasting and touching me with your fingers when they've been inside them. Stinking of sex.”  
  
Dean suddenly feels way out of his depth. If he didn't know better he'd say Sam was on drugs or...  
  
“Christo!”  
  
Sam smiles wanly.  
  
“I'm not possessed, Dean. Just tired of your sluttin' around. Do you have any idea what's it's like for me? Having to lie there and listen to those stupid girls moaning your name through the wall?”  
  
“Sam?”  
  
“Wishing it was me.”  
  
Dean's aware he's gawping. He thinks he must have missed something fundamental between stealing Sam's Cheerios and taking a shower, because he could swear Sam just said he's jealous.  
  
“What the fuck are you talkin' about, Sam?”  
  
Sam stalks towards him holding out the red stockings Rachelle must have neglected to pick up on the way out.  
  
“Put them on.”  
  
Dean laughs, but Sam's face is impassive and little tendrils of panic start to form in the pit of Dean's stomach.  
  
“W-w-what?” he stutters. Smooth.  
  
“I said,” Sam says quietly. “Put them on.”  
  
Dean stands there, dumbstruck, waiting for a smile to break on Sam's face, waiting for the punchline.  
  
“Do it,” Sam insists. “Now.”  
  
“No!” Dean barks, unsteady on his feet as he moves to take the stockings from Sam. Sam snatches his hand back out of his reach.  
  
“I'm serious, Dean. If you're going to act like a slut and make me listen to it, then you should look the part. Now, put...them...on.”  
  
Dean's gaze slips down to Sam crotch. He's hard, front of his baggy shorts tented. He's not messing around. A queasy sort of excitement slams through him. His brother, his own brother, is hard for him. Dean should run. Should get out of this room and keep going until there's enough space between him and Sam to let him breathe again. Sam can't want this. Can't know what he's asking. They've been cooped up in here too long. Sam's sixteen and he's angry all the time, and he has no other outlets. He's confused and frustrated and horny and he's misfiring so very, very badly. It's Dean's job to protect him from himself.  
  
“Sam, we can't...it's, I mean it's so far off the scale, man. You can't want this.”  
  
“Please, Dean,” Sam chokes out miserably. “This is your fault. You did this to me — made me want you. I know it's fucked up. I know. Please, just...please.”  
  
“OK!” Dean breathes. He can't deal with Sam looking this upset, knowing he's the one responsible for his torment. “OK, dammit. Give 'em to me.”  
  
Sam lets out a long breath and holds the stockings out to his brother. Dean takes them with tremulous hands and goes to sit on the edge of his bed. The bottoms are still pressed out, holding the shape of Rachelle's smaller feet. Dean bunches up the right one and places it over his toes, gently rolling the delicate fabric over his foot and up his ankle, his calf, taking care not to snag it. Finally he stands and smooths the last few inches up over his thigh. Sam is watching, lips parted, eyes glassy. Dean sits and repeats with the left stocking. When he's done, Sam says,  
  
“Lose the towel.”  
  
Dean swallows hard and brings his hands up to where it's knotted around his hips. He tugs lightly at the towel, lets it fall open then softly to the ground. He stands, naked but for the gossamer red stockings. There are droplets of water still clinging to his chest and back. His cock feels fat and heavy, ultra-exposed by the contrast of having something tight encasing his legs.  
  
Sam gasps. There are little swathes of pink across his cheeks and he looks dazed. He's breathing hard and shaky. They are both silent for a long time. Dean hears the whir and sigh of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. Finally, Sam whispers,  
  
“You know why I swipe your lip balm?”  
  
Dean shakes his head, suddenly unable to drag in enough air.  
  
“Because I watch you slick those lips with it all day, every day. You lick and bite them swollen, then you make them all plump and shiny with the balm. I swear, just the smell of it is enough to get me hard now.”  
  
Dean feels warm all over even though he's wet and as good as naked, but then Sam's moves towards him and his skin shudders into goosebumps.  
  
“I spread it all over my thumb and pointer, here,” he shows Dean by tracing the finger of his other hand around the area in question. “Then I make a circle like this, slide it up and down my dick. Pretend it's your mouth.”  
  
Dean lets out a groan and says,  
  
“Sammy.”  
  
Sam comes to a halt, face to face with his brother, only a few inches separating them.  
  
Dean's cock is starting to fill and swell. He's never been afraid of a little experimentation when it comes to sex, but this, the thought of his little brother jacking off and imagining his mouth on him is so nasty, so filthy and wrong and sordid that it makes him dizzy with arousal. He's on a one way train to Special Hell.  
  
He notices Sam's fist is still clenched around the little tube.  
  
“Whatcha got there, kiddo? That what I think it is? Huh? Were you heading off to spank it with my chapstick before I caught you red-handed?”  
  
Dean tries a smirk but it feels all wrong on his lips. He's a wreck, Sam's taking him apart piece by piece. Standing here in this crappy room with the worn carpet and peeling wallpaper, wearing women's stockings and nothing else — he's more than bare. He's inside out.  
  
“Nope,” Sam says carefully. “Another souvenir from Rachel.”  
  
Dean doesn't dare correct him.  
  
Sam brings the lipstick up to his face and squints to read the tiny lettering on the base.  
  
“Cherry Pie,” he says. “Figures. You had this all over you this morning. All marked up where she'd been mouthing at you.”  
  
Sam drops his chin and looks up at Dean through his bangs.  
  
“Bet your pretty mouth would look so good all painted up. Wanna see it, Dean. Wanna paint your mouth and watch you leave your stains all over me when you sink those lips down on my cock.”  
  
Dean honest to God nearly loses it at that. His dick jerks and feels a pulse of slick well in his slit. Where the fuck did his kid brother learn to talk like this anyhow? Dean always had him pegged as a blushing virgin.  
  
“Do it,” he croaks, mouth gone dry, cock dripping wet.  
  
Sam smiles and pushes Dean back lightly to sit on the bed. He kneels between his legs, pushes them further apart to make space for himself and wriggles in closer, almost brushing his brother's aching hard-on.  
  
He opens the lipstick and twists the base. The red color is violent in the daylight. Dean imagines their father coming home now, walking in to find his eldest in women's underwear, dick hard, his youngest on his knees before him, painting his lips, making him feel so deliciously whorish and twisted up inside. He has to tamp down a near-hysterical burble of laughter at that mental image.  
  
“Do this,” Sam says, pushing his lips into a pout.  
  
Dean copies him.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Just like that. So beautiful, Dean.”  
  
The make-up smells strongly of artificial cherries, and it feels heavy and greasy on his mouth. Sam glides the tip around, concentration writ all over his face. Dean can see this close up, how smooth and perfect his skin is, the fox-red highlights in his hair, all the colors glinting in his pretty, feline eyes. Almost girlish.  
  
“You are,” he says, bringing his hand up to cup Sam's cheek and pressing his made-up mouth to his brother's. The kiss is just a soft pressure at first, but then Sam moans and opens his mouth, and Dean can't help slipping his tongue inside, tasting the sticky-sweet of the lipstick and the salt of the sweat from Sam's upper lip.  
  
“Oh God!” Sam pants into his mouth. “Oh God, Oh God. Dean, I need to...I need more.”  
  
Dean pulls back and nods.  
  
“Anything you want, kiddo.”  
  
He lets his legs fall further apart, displaying himself. His cock is drooling against his abs, the sheer fabric of the stocking is stretched tight over the hard swell of his quads.  
  
Sam nudges him back a little, and he takes his weight on his elbows. Sam chases him, kisses him again, lapping hungrily at his tongue, the roof of his mouth, his teeth, sucking on his lower lip, biting down and testing the soft give of the tender flesh. Sam has red smudged all over his own lips and his teeth. Damned if he isn't the most sinful thing Dean's ever laid eyes on. It's like a switch got flipped the minute Sam admitted his dirty little secret. The way Dean feels about his sibling has always been a melting pot of ingredients best not scrutinized too hard, but suddenly it's like a big bright light came on, and Dean doesn't know how he missed it before. Desire, unmistakable, thrumming just under his skin. The word 'incest' bounces round inside his skull, but instead of dousing the hot lick of want crawling up his spine, it just fans the flames.  
  
Sam breaks the kiss and starts to trace around Dean's left nipple with the tip of the lipstick. Dean watches as he circles it slowly, then puts his mouth there, kissing and nuzzling, drawing the delicate bud between his teeth and flicking at it with is tongue. When it's as hard and flushed as his weeping cock, Sam moves on to the right. Dean moans, his eyes fluttering shut as sensation spikes through him and makes his balls draw up tight. Sam runs his long, skillful hands up and down the length of Dean's stocking-clad legs as he tongues his nipples, stopping just shy of where Dean most craves his touch.  
  
When Dean is whimpering and arching under his mouth, Sam draws a red line down, between the bunched muscle of his stomach and around and around his navel. It tickles and Dean shudders when Sam pushes the blunted point inside and twirls it around. He withdraws the lipstick and sets to work with his mouth once again, licking and sucking, pushing his tongue inside until Dean's belly is quivering and jumping.  
  
“Jesus, Sam, please. Please suck me. Or touch it. Anything. Please.”  
  
Sam looks up at him and licks some of the red off his lips. He shakes his head minutely and pushes Dean's knees up, forcing him onto his back. He grips Dean around the ankles and plants his feet on the edge of the mattress, leaving Dean exposed, his damp hole twitching at the sudden rush of cool air on it.  
  
“Sam, what're you -”  
  
Dean's question dissolves into a long moan as he feels Sam draw around his pucker with the lipstick.  
  
“So gorgeous, Dean.” Sam's voice drifts up from between his thighs. “Pretty pink hole. Nearly as pretty as your mouth. Gonna paint it up and kiss it like it's your mouth. Fuck it with my tongue. Make you come by Frenching your tight hole. You think I can?”  
  
Dean doesn't have the breath to answer so he tilts his hips wantonly, hoping Sam gets the message that well fuck — there's only one way to find out.  
  
He bucks up off the bed when the cool slick of Cherry Pie is pushed up inside him and pulled out again. Then Sam's warm, wet tongue is making trembling little circuits around and around his opening. Sam's mouth closes over his asshole and he sucks gently, just like he said he would, kissing him, rubbing his cheeks along the inside of his thighs. All Dean can do is thread his fingers through Sam's hair and try not to grind too hard against his face. Sam's tongue is wide and flat, licking broad stripes over his clenching hole. Then it's curled to a point and firm, plunging in over, and over, Sam's lips catch-dragging the rim as he licks out and drops sucking kisses on it over and over until Dean thinks it might be possible to go insane from this much pleasure. He's so close — so fucking close. All it would take is one or two pumps of his fist, but he wants to see if Sam can get him there with his tongue. He squirms and gasps and moans,  
  
“Oh fuck, Sammy. Oh fuck. I need to come. Need to come so bad.”  
  
Sam pushes his tongue in hard, wiggles it around. Dean mewls and tries to get more of it up inside him. He flinches when he feels Sam's finger there as well, tries to relax as it sinks into him, achingly slow, to the first knuckle. Sam continues licking around the digit spearing him open, pushing steadily until it's all the way in. Dean feels Sam's hand snug up against his butt. It feels a little weird, unyielding. Not as good as Sam's tongue. But then Sam twists his wrist and presses something deep inside which makes Dean's cock jerk hard.  
  
“Again!” he says. “Do that again!”  
  
He feels Sam huff a pleased sound against his hole, and he starts to pump his finger in and out, nailing that spot over and over. His tongue snakes in alongside Sam's finger and it's game over for Dean. His shoulders come up off the bed and a hoarse cry explodes out of him as he shoots off in long spurts which streak up his chest and reach as far as his neck. Sam keeps milking him, pulse after pulse of come dirtying him up, wet and sticky on his belly, milky wads of it clinging to his pubic hair.  
  
When Dean can finally open his eyes, Sam is standing over him. His eyes are wild and there's make-up and spit all over his face. There's a damp patch on the front of his board shorts, and for a minute Dean thinks he's unloaded in his underwear. But then Sam pushes them down and steps out of them in one fluid movement, and pulls his tee up under his armpits. His chest is heaving, ribs etched on every breath, and his hip bones are sharp. There is a trail of dark hair leading down to Sam's large, blood-dark and still very hard cock.  
  
“Suck it,” he says. It's almost a sob.  
  
Dean sits up, slaps his hands down on the meat of Sam's ass, pulls him in towards his face, and sinks his painted mouth down on his brother's shaft. His heart kicks when he hears the strangled sound Sam makes. He pulls back up, hollowing his cheeks and laving his tongue along the underside. Once more he swallows Sam down and sucks back up his length, and that's all it takes. Sam's hips piston forward, his big, thick cock bumping the spongy flesh of Dean's throat. Dean tries not to gag and he breathes through his nose while Sam floods his mouth with his bitter release. There's a lot of it and Dean's never tasted another guy's spunk before, but this is Sam and he feels so slutty and depraved and good that he gulps down every last drop. He keeps Sam in his mouth until he starts to soften, and looks up at him through his long lashes, makes a show of letting his brother's spent dick slip out from between his well-fucked and lipstick smeared lips. There's a ring of red around the base of Sam's cock and he stares at it for a while, stunned to think that he's the one who put it there.  
  
“Shit,” Sam pants eventually. He looks so vulnerable, standing there, naked from the waist down, hair plastered to his face. Cock shiny and glistening with Dean's saliva. Red all over it, all over his his hands. Red on his face. He pitches forward and pulls Dean down with him on the bed. They lie on their sides, facing each other.  
  
Dean doesn't protest when Sam kisses him, despite the thick, perfumed taste of the Cherry Pie and the strange earthy, tang he doesn't want to think about right now. Despite the peppery flavor of Sam clinging to his tongue.  
  
“Shouldn't have said that,” Sam says eventually, in between lazy presses of his open mouth against Dean's.  
  
“Huh?” Dean's having a little trouble remembering much past the slippery heat of Sam's tongue in his ass.  
  
“About it being your fault. It's not. I mean, I don't blame you. Just...please don't say you regret this. 'Cause I don't Dean.”  
  
Dean thinks about all the reasons this a monumentally bad idea. He stops counting when he reaches twenty five. But Sam's finger is trailing light patterns around the elasticated top of the stocking, dipping under now and then and sending shivers ricocheting all over his skin, making it hard for him to think straight. He sighs and moves to strip them off. Sam's giant hand closes over his.  
  
“Leave them on!” He smiles. “Please.”  
  
“We need to clean up, Sam. Dad could be back any minute.”  
  
Sam jumps up and runs out of the room, leaving Dean confused and worried he's freaked Sam out. But then Sam is back, waving a packet of wet wipes triumphantly in the air. Dean smiles and shakes his head. Sam closes the door behind him and turns the lock before climbing back on the bed and straddling Dean's narrow hips.  
  
“So let me clean you up,” Sam says, running his hands down to stroke Dean's chest. “Then I'm gonna make you all messy again.”  
  
Dean feels his cock give an interested twitch. So maybe he's a little pervy after all...

* * *

 


End file.
